Confessions of a Window Cleaner (12 page)

I go over to the bed and put my hand between her legs and tickle the thing that is pressed against the bedspread like a warm, black spider. I’ve got a hard on now like a stick of Blackpool rock with the Lords Prayer printed through it – sideways.

“Smack me.”

I’ve still got the hairbrush in my hand and – well, you can’t refuse a lady can you? – I give her a few taps till her bottom is a delicate patterned pink and she’s squealing like feeding time at the piggery. It amazes me how some birds love being walloped.

Well, you don’t have to read a lot of detective stories to know what happens next. Her drawers complete their journey to the floor where they soon chum up with my jeans and I’m into her faster than a stoat into a rabbit hole.

What a performer. In my experience you can’t beat an older woman. Everytime they do it they do it as if they reckon it might be the last. And they’re not inhibited either. Mrs. V’s attraction to things French goes a lot deeper than just dressing up in her maid’s clobber and saying ‘oo la la’ occasionally. About the only thing she doesn’t do is the Can Can.

Then suddenly, it’s all over. She sits up, pats her hair, picks up her knickers and says “I am going to ze bathroom” and walks out. Well, I can take a hint, and sure enough just as I’m dressed and have swung one foot over the window sill she comes in again – but this time wearing the full Mrs. Villiers kit. She gives me a searching glance as if to say “Keep your nose to the grindstone and your hands off the teaspoons” and stalks out. There’s not even a twinkle when she gives me my money and if it wasn’t for the condition of my old man I might think I’d dreamed the whole thing. But when I examine what looks like a peeled grape with anaemia I realise it’s either been belting the arse off somebody or I must have caught it in a mincing machine without noticing.

Now about this time I can hear some of you saying ‘oh yes, very likely, isn’t it. Women dressing up as French maids and having it off with the window cleaner. What a load of cobblers. Who does he think we are, etc. etc.’. Now, I don’t mind. I’m used to this reaction. But I want to warn you against it. Having your doubts is one thing, but complacency is a whore of a different colour. Just because it’s never happened to you, doesn’t mean it isn’t happening to other people. Have a quick butchers at the ‘News of the People’ occasionally if you don’t believe me. I knew a bloke once who came home in the middle of the afternoon and caught his wife curled up in bed with someone else. He went spare. Picked up a lamp to smash the fellow’s face in – and found it was the next door neighbour’s daughter. Now just imagine that; not very nice to find your wife on the job with a bloke, but with a bird? It nearly killed the poor bastard and he’d had no idea his old woman was bent; used to have it away with her whenever he wanted to and she never complained or anything.

It’s like I was saying earlier. You never really know what a woman is up to, and they don’t know themselves half the time. But I can tell you that if you take ’em for granted you’re asking for a nasty surprise – and I’m speaking from personal experience.

A lot of people’s scornful attitude is also caused by a chronic obsession with their own sexual adequacy (phew! not bad, eh? It took me about three days to get the spelling right). Few blokes or birds are satisfied with their plumbing and they’re always looking around a bit nervous-like to size up the competition. To be secure they have to believe that no one is getting it more often or better than they are. The very thought makes their stomachs hiss and bubble like a bucket of Epsom Salts. This kind of person is much happier saying that you’re bull-shitting – and trying to believe it – than grabbing a slice of the action for himself.

I can’t blame them really because the way I go on you’d think I was having a thigh hamburger every hour of the day. In fact it’s like I said at the beginning. Most of them just roll their eyeballs over you and have a little think about it. For every bird that takes you upstairs there’s fifty that don’t fancy it, and five that prefer Ken Dodd anyway. And, by God, if you saw some of them, you’d be bloody grateful for it too. It’s not every day of the week that beauty and lust go hand in hand. I don’t tell you about some of the terrible old scrubbers that tip me the wink because I don’t want to turn you off. I had a mate who used to be a court usher and he told me that if you saw some of the rubbish that came up before the beak you wouldn’t be able to associate them with the tricks they’re supposed to have got up to. You’d think it was six other people.

Talking of tricks reminds me of Brenda; plump little blonde bird with bloody great tits. She was a rotten little tart if ever there was one. She’d strip to the waist to wash her hands in a prisoner of war camp, and the insides of her legs hadn’t touched each other since she left primary school.

She was another one who was always moaning on about her old man. I don’t like that because I’m happier forgetting he exists. Hearing some bird telling me what a prat her husband is makes me feel sorry for the poor bastard and once I feel sorry I feel guilty and once I feel guilty I don’t enjoy poking the bird so much. So Brenda is doing nobody a favour by beginning to rabbit on about ‘The Weasel’ as she affectionately calls him.

“You know what I like about you?” she says to me one afternoon, when we’re tucked up side by side enjoying a marshmallow after the first round of our labours. I’m not kidding. Brenda is always stuffing herself with sweets.

“Don’t be bloody stupid,” I tell her.

“No, besides that – well it is part of it I suppose. It’s your body. You’ve got a lovely body, Timmy.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“You conceited bastard!”

“Well, it’s a fact, isn’t it? I’m stuck with it. There’s no point in pretending I haven’t noticed it myself.”

“The Weasel looks like a slug compared to you.”

“Weasels can’t look like slugs.”

“Mine can. Oh, you don’t know what it’s like when he starts pawing you.”

“You’re dead right I don’t.”

“He’s got cold, clammy hands, and hairs growing out of his ears. Trouble is, he’s so sexy. He can’t get enough of it. Every night he’s trying to have it away. ‘Come on Brenda. Just a quickie. It’ll help me go to sleep.’ That’s what he says. I usually give in to him. Just so that I can get some peace.”

“Well, it’s nice to know somebody cares, isn’t it?”

“He doesn’t care. I could be half a grapefruit for all it matters to him.”

You damn near are, I think to myself.

“And he’s so mean,” she goes on. “Never takes me out anywhere.”

“He’s frightened of losing you to another man.”

“Go on. Don’t give me that. If I could leave my twat behind, he’d chuck me out tomorrow.”

Most birds never mention their fannies by name but Brenda doesn’t bother about such niceties.

“He’d have a job, wouldn’t he?”

“You ought to be jealous listening to me going on about my husband.”

“Doesn’t sound as if I’ve got much to be jealous about.”

“No. It’s the idea of it. If you cared for me, you wouldn’t want me to mention anybody else.”

“No. I expect you’re right.”

“Ooh. You are terrible. You only want one thing with me.”

“So do you.”

“I don’t. I’m very fond of you. Much more than you are of me. I don’t tell you, but I am.”

“You’re telling me now, aren’t you?”

“If you’re going to be like that, you might as well piss off.”

“That’s what I like about you, Brenda, you’re such a lady.”

“That’s not what you like about me. This is what you like—” She picks up my hand and puts it between her legs. It’s like putting it in front of an electric fire. You could hatch ducks’ eggs down there.

“—and this is what I like.” Brenda’s hands are like a cheese grater and she uses them as if she’s rummaging for a tanner in a sack of potatoes. That’s because she’s a scrubber. A class bird will always treat your property with the tenderness and respect it deserves. However, my prick is so pig stupid it frequently can’t tell the difference and responds to her horrible advances with a speed worthy of a better occasion.

“There’s a good boy.”

Brenda shoves another marshmallow in her mouth and scrambles astride me.

“Where is it? Ah, there we are.”

She settles down like a chicken on to its eggs and starts a slow circular movement which matches the passage of the marshmallow round her mouth. It’s not bad and I lie back and watch her enormous tits. They’re a bit like marshmallows, too.

“Come on, aren’t you going to do anything?”

“I was admiring you.”

“Go on.”

“No seriously. You’ve got fabulous tits.”

I know I said I never call ’em tits, but with Brenda it doesn’t matter. She bends forward so her hair dangles all over my face and her bristols are hanging down like two stockings full of sago pudding. It’s supposed to be sexy but in fact her hair tickles and her tits give me an inferiority complex. That’s why I like small, slim birds. Because I’ve got a penis complex – oh doctor, I thought I’d never tell you.

I tilt back my head and lick the dust of icing sugar on her lips. Somewhere outside men are digging holes in the road, or adding up columns of sales figures, or selling vacuum cleaners, but Timmy Lea is lying here being screwed by Brenda Somebody and it’s not a bad way to make a living, really it isn’t.

“Yoo hoo! Anyone at home?”

I leap about four feet in the air, which is not bad when you’ve got somebody Brenda’s weight sitting on your old man, but bloody painful when you come down again.

“Fuck,” says Brenda. She sounds more annoyed than scared. Not me though.

I’m scared. This is the kind of thing I always knew would happen one day.

“What am going to do?”

“You could get in the wardrobe.”

I rush across the room and tear the coat hangers aside, so I can burrow into the mothballs like a thirteen stone moth trying to commit suicide.

“My clothes?”

“Alright, alright,” she picks up my stuff and pushes it into the wardrobe.

“Here I come, lover.” The voice is about six paces away.

“Close the door. Ouch!”

The last exclamation is occasioned by my cock nearly getting slammed in the door. It must have been done a permanent injury, because it’s still standing stiffly to attention like the boy on the burning deck. Try explaining that one away I think to myself as I crouch there peering through the clothes and the half-open doors towards the bed.

In this situation, I have to hand it to Brenda. You wouldn’t think that her husband was on the point of bursting into the bedroom and finding her boy friend bent double in the wardrobe with an enormous hard on. She drops her nightdress over her shoulders like a tea cosy, hops into bed and is sitting there selecting a marshmallow as ‘The Weasel’ comes into my field of vision. I can see what she means about being sexy. He must be fruitier than a two-ton packet of wine gums. He’s only been shedding his clothes all the way up the stairs and is now wearing a string vest, pants and socks, held up by an arresting pair of yellow suspenders. It is possible that he always goes about like this, but I reject the thought.

“So there you are,” he says, sitting on the bed and helping himself to a marshmallow.

“Cor, you’re looking alright.”

“Help yourself.” Brenda waves at the box on her lap. “Why don’t you take the whole bleeding lot?”

“You don’t seem very glad to see me. I got away special to come over here. Look, I bought you a little present.”

Typical, I think to myself. ‘He never buys me anything,’ that’s what she said to me. You can’t believe a word they say.

The Weasel produces what looks like one coil from a large spring which he must have been hiding in his hand.

“Where did you knock that off from?” Grateful, isn’t she?

“I bought it.”

“Go on. I know you. What is it?”

“It’s a bracelet. It goes on your wrist.”

“I know where bracelets go. I didn’t think it went through my nose.”

Not a bad idea, though, I think to myself. God. but it’s uncomfortable in that cupboard and I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to stand it without moving. Why doesn’t Brenda tell him to piss off and buy her a packet of aspirins?

“Don’t be like that, Bren,” continues the Weasel. “You know how I feel about you.”

“Yeah. With your dirty little hands most of the time. I’ve had about enough of it.”

“Oh Bren.”

“Get orf me.”

The Weasel is getting passionate and attempts to embrace Brenda, getting a stiff hand off for his pains.

“Come on, Bren, give me a little kiss.” One of his podgy hands closes on her breast. “I did buy you a bracelet, didn’t I?”

You can tell that ‘The Weasel’ is the persistent type and does not take ‘no’ for an answer easily. You may recall my earlier words on how effective this can be. Certainly Brenda is slow to brush the hand away and I can almost see her disgusting little mind thinking that it might be quicker and easier to let him get on with it.

“You’re lovely, Bren. Ooh, if you knew how much I fancied you.”

“I get an idea sometimes.”

Brenda allows herself to be kissed and the rolls of fat on the Weasel’s neck huddle together like shorn sheep. It looks as if I’m going to be right. His hands disappear under her nightie and he’s moaning and trying unsuccessfully to hook off his socks. He looks bloody ridiculous and I hope nobody has ever seen me in the same position. Brenda’s head is on his shoulder and the cheeky bitch raises her eyebrows to the ceiling in a ‘useless’ gesture clearly intended for my benefit.

“Come on then,” she says. “But you’d better make it quick – still, you usually do, don’t you?”

She’s a hard case, that Brenda. The Weasel is trying to slip under the sheets but she kicks them all back so I can see right up to her tonsils. She whips off his pants like they’re a corn plaster and lays back with her hands behind her head. It’s obvious that this is all for my benefit. The dirtly little scrubber obviously gets a kick out of being watched when she’s on the job. The Weasel scrambles on top of her with all the grace of a pelican landing on a flag pole and fumbles his way into her. God knows why she calls him the Weasel. He’s more like an over-fed spaniel. Once he’s inside, she wraps her legs round the small of his back and I’m almost jealous until he gets into his stride. What a disgusting sight. It’s like a couple of hairy, white blancmanges caught in a high gale. They wobble and tremble so I think they might end up on the floor at any moment. I promise you, if you saw what it looked like it would put you off for the rest of your life. Luckily, I don’t have to bear it for long, because Brenda is dead right – the Weasel has hardly started before he is finished. He lets out a groan like the end of three weeks constipation and collapses on top of her as if he’s a beach mattress and somebody has taken the bung out. Over his shoulder Brenda is unkindly giving me a thumbs-down sign.